


Sour Wine and Honeyed Bruises

by TimmyJaybird



Series: The Awakening [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The godswoods is a place for prayer, and for Sansa, a place to escape with her recent joy from her broken betrothal. But her joy coupled with wine and a certain haunting man may bring her to discover more than prayer within the trees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sour Wine and Honeyed Bruises

She was free.

It still felt strange to think. Sansa sipped on a cup of honeyed wine, alone in her chambers. She was free of Joffrey. The boy had broken their betrothal, had taken Margery Tyrell instead of her. The idea alone made her giddy as a fool. This was her second cup of wine though, and she was sure it was to blame as well.

Sansa knew she was not free of the Lannisters. They held her still, and she did not dare dream now that she would be freed. But she did not have to share Joffrey’s bed. That was enough.

Downing the rest of her wine, she set her cup down and decided she needed some air. The guards had lessened at her door now, and people seemed more likely to ignore her now that that bit of status had been ripped from her. She pulled a cloak over her shoulders and hair, and swept from her room, tempted to hum tunelessly to herself.

The Godswoods was a good place for some air, to calm her heart. She did not expect to see ser Dontos, nor did she truly want to. She just wanted the cool autumn night air on her skin, to clear her head and her chest, to remind her that she was not dreaming.

She sat in the godswoods, on a small stone bench, and bowed her head. She didn’t pray, she just smiled and thought of how sweet it would be to watch someone else wear Joffrey’s damned Lannister cloak at the wedding.

“What’s the little bird doing out of her cage?”

She turned with a start, not removing her hood. The Hound stood in the small entrance to the godswoods, filling it, a wineskin in one hand. She could smell the wine, and she assumed it was half empty. _At least._

She found her heart racing further at his intrusion, and cursed herself. She thought of him in her chambers, the night of Blackwater. Drunk and frantic, telling her to sing, telling her he’d take her away. He smelled of blood then, and Sansa wondered if he could smell her own moon’s blood through all that of the men he’d murdered.

“Praying,” Sansa said, and he walked over. She pulled her hood down, letting her auburn hair free. “How did you know it was me?”

“No one else visits bloody trees,” he said, taking a pull of his wine. Sansa watched his throat move. It made her tingle. His lips were wet, she could see it. She remembered them. He’d taken his song, even if it was only a hymn to the mother, but he’d taken a kiss too. He’d pinned her to the wall and held her firm as she felt his ruined lips tug at her own, as she squirmed and whimpered at the heat in her chest and the fear in her mind. She’d thought he’d take more, but he’d stormed out after, leaving his bloody white cloak behind.

She had thought he’d left for good, until she heard of the battles the next day. He’d gone back, turned a mad, rabid dog, and slain more men then she dare try to count. His brief disappearance had been forgotten.

“They’re sacred to some,” she pointed out, though Sansa wasn’t sure if they were to her. Until now she had not had reason to thank the old gods or the Seven, and now that finally her luck had turned, she wasn’t sure who had caused it. Perhaps there was another god she had not met yet. The Hound just shrugged a shoulder and looked at her, before taking a seat beside her. Sansa shifted away to make more room, but even then she was forced into contact with him, her leg resting against his. Her breath hitched when she realized the air was instantly warmer with him there.

_Gods be good, I must be drunk_.

She watched him take another drink, and wondered why he was there. He wasn’t speaking, he had no reason to be in the godswoods, and yet he had appeared, like magic.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and he leaned forward onto his elbows.

“Watching you.” It was so blunt that it took Sansa back. She stared at him, her Tully blues wide.

“What?”

“Someone has to,” he pointed out, “Now that you don’t belong to the King, someone might get a little drunk and decide you’re pretty enough to take.” He took another drink, shook his head, even dared to laugh.

“ _You’re_ drunk, ser,” Sansa said, and the Hound just laughed more.

“What of it? A dog has the right to drink when he’s not needed.” He took another drink, then held the skin out to Sansa. She hesitated, but took it against her better judgement and took a drink. The wine was so strong it nearly brought tears to her eyes, and she lost her breath. She passed it back and coughed, and he smiled.

“Do you really think I’m not safe?” Sansa asked, and he shrugged a shoulder.

“Might be, could be. With how much the Tyrell men are drinking to their sweet little Margery, they might forget themselves.”

The way he said her name made Sansa irritated. He called her _sweet_ , she didn’t like him going off and calling other girls sweet too. It was absurd, and she had no reason for anger, but it was there.

“We’ll see how sweet she is once Joffrey has her for a bit.” The bitterness in her voice made the Hound stare at her, and she took his wineskin from his hands and drank again. If the men could be drunk, she may as well indulge more as well. She had the right to celebrate her freedom.

She just wanted to forget that he said someone else’s name.

_The wine is in my head, is all. In the morning I’ll see how foolish I’m being_.

He watched her take another drink, before she handed it back to him. He chuckled.

“The little bird is thirsty.”

“The little bird is _happy_ ,” Sansa said, though she didn’t sound it.

“If this is what you sound like happy, you’re the most boring bloody woman in all the seven kingdoms.” She gawked at him, narrowed her eyes, and smacked his arm. He wore only cloth, no mail or leather, but his arm was still hard under her hand. He laughed at her childish slap, reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could retreat. “What has you so upset, _my lady_?”

_He’s mocking me!_

“Don’t say her name,” Sansa said, the wine making her tongue lose. “I don’t like hearing it.”

“Upset that the Tyrell bitch has taken your Lion?”

“No,” Sansa said, yanking her arm free, “I just don’t like hearing you call her sweet.” The Hound laughed, letting the now empty wineskin fall to the ground.

“The little bird is jealous.” Sansa cried out in frustration and went to smack him again, but he caught her arm, pulled her close. She sprawled forward, leaning into his lap, staring up at him. “Did a kiss leave you so enthralled, girl?”

“No!” she said as she squirmed, felt the muscles of his legs beneath her, the heat of his body. She felt dizzy and hot, but yet his heat made her want to get closer. She was out of her mind.

He chuckled and grabbed her waist, hoisting her over to him and onto his legs. Her cloak caught on the bench and tore from it’s clasp, falling free and leaving her in just dress. She squirmed more, but his arm curled tighter around her waist, held her firm.

“Let me go!” she said, beating lightly on his chest with one hand. His chest rumbled when he laughed, and she ceased her smacking to let her hand rest there, to feel it. Her fingers splayed, she felt the vibrations cease, felt his breathing grow just a bit more rapid. She shifted closer, dared to lean against his chest. She giggled when she moved as he breathed, and felt his girp on her loosen, his hand stroking along her side, the curve of her hip.

“You’re drunk, girl,” he said, and Sansa nodded, feeling the wine making her head fuzzy, her body warm. The air was cool, and without her cloak, she found she wanted to be closer to him. She closed her eyes, could smell the wine on him, the wood around them, and something else distinct to him, and him alone. It made her heart speed. “I should get you back inside.”

“I don’t want to,” Sansa said, clutching at his shirt. “I want to stay here.” He sighed.

“You’re damned confusing, Sansa.” The mention of her name made her shiver, and he felt it, but she didn’t know _why_. She felt him shift though, and was said when he pulled her from his chest and forced her to sit upright. “You’re scared of me, but you cuddle like a damned kitten.”

“You’re warm,” Sansa said, “that’s all. It’s cold. And I’m not scared of you.” That made him laugh again.

“When did you stop?” She sat there, thinking about it. It was true, he wasn’t as horrifying as she remembered him being. Truth be told, unless he was angry, he was just a man. A big, hulking, solid, warm...

_Stop it!_ Sansa wanted to smack herself.

“When you kissed me,” she said, realizing it to be true. He had poured something of himself into her that night in her chambers, something that let her see he wasn’t a beast. He just liked to pretend he was.

He didn’t speak, just stared at her. Then in one quick movement, he held her in his iron grip and kissed her again. Sansa gasped, felt how his mouth slid against hers in a delicious motion, one that sent her tummy to doing flips. His hands on her waist tightened, the other wrapped around her and on her thigh, stroking gently. Sansa squirmed, but she didn’t pull away. He tasted like wine, and it made her thirsty.

_Gods what am I doing? I’ll just pull away now_ , but all she did was lean closer, grip at his shirt and open her mouth without him coaxing her. He seized the moment, delved his tongue into her mouth, explored its softness, danced with her tongue. She was whimpering and squirming more, making it hard for him to focus, an ache growing in his groin.

When Sansa finally pulled back, she was panting lightly, her chest straining against the tight lacing of her gown. She stared at him, blue eyes wild.

“What are you doing to me?” she asked so innocently that he laughed. He leaned forward, nuzzled into her hair and neck, and she didn’t fight him.

“Exciting you, if your mouth tells me true.” He kissed her neck, felt her shiver, a sweet feeling. “I’d almost think you want me, little bird.”

“ _No_ ,” she breathed as he trailed kisses up her neck, nipped at her ear lobe. She wound her arms around his neck and sank her finger tips into his hair, felt his scars brushing against her skin.

“You’ll have to be more convincing girl.” His kisses trailed down one, one of his hands tugging on her dress, pulling it lower to expose the swell of her growing breasts. Just that extra expanse of milky pale skin sent a jolt of arousal through the Hound, made him want to shove her down on the cold stone and fuck Sansa until her screams woke the damned North.

But then, it didn’t take much to make him want to fuck Sansa Stark. The girl was damned beauty incarnate, so young and unspoiled- something left to conquer. Something left to ruin.

Sansa moaned softly as he nipped the tops of her breasts, writhed around on his lap and felt the evidence of his own arousal. She should be horrified, she should be screaming, but she was warm and fuzzy and lost in so many things. She could taste the wine from his lips, and the taste that had already stained her mouth. Maybe if she had another cup, she’d make her mind up one way or the other on what he was doing to her. Not that she understood it, she only knew she _liked_ it.

She ached between her legs, a feeling she had not felt. She had belt butterflies once for Joffrey, that shiver of something in her spine, and again for ser Loras. But this ache was new.

“I hurt,” she said, holding onto his shoulder to steady herself. That stopped him. He looked up at her, his dark eyes suddenly alert.

“Where girl?” _Is he worried?_

She hesitated, feeling so improper, but finally her hands ghosted down, rested on her lap, and she blushed. He raised his one good eyebrow, then laughed, bellowed into the night. In a quick movement he was pushing her dress up, one hand heading for hers.

“You don’t hurt,” he said, “you just need something.” She tried to squirm away, but he held her firm, his hand on her bare knee, then her thigh. With her heavy skirts it was hard to get much further, and with her squirming. The Hound frowned, grunted in frustration, and in a quick movement stood, lifting Sansa, before setting her back on the stone bench. He knelt before her, spread her legs and pressed between them. He gripped her chin with one hand, kissed her again, his free hand grabbing one of her breasts. Sansa gasped and tried to squirm away, but he held her still.

“No,” she gasped, “you _can’t_. It’s not proper.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Who’s going to know, girl? Don’t tell me no when it’s bloody obvious you’re enjoying it.” Sansa hesitated. She should push him away, she should, but the gods be damned the ache between her legs made her want to pull him closer, and the wine in her head told her it was a good idea. Who would know? No one came to the godswoods, except her. She would tell no one.

“I have to be a maiden,” she whined, “if I ever want to marry.”

“Aye, and you will be,” he said, a bit annoyed, “I never said I was going to fuck you, girl. Do you know nothing?”

Sansa didn’t, but she didn’t want to show it. Still... “What would you do, then?” She was curious, what else could he do aside of take her?

“You are a stupid little bird,” he said, slowly messaging her breast. She fidgeted. “So damned stupid and glorious,” he leaned in, kissing her neck again, biting the skin roughly, making her cry out in shock. She truly had no clue about bedding, and it made the Hound all the harder inside his breeches. He’d show her, then, what he could do to her and still let her keep the title of pure.

He ripped her dress lower, tearing some of the lacing in the back, exposing her breasts. He suckled on one nipple, making her chest heave in heavy breaths, his hand kneading the other. Sansa let her head tip back, let her breaths rush in and out of her. One of her hands tangled in his hair, and she felt giddy and heavy all at once. The excitement that she simply should not be here with this man only made her thighs wet, and she wanted to blush. This was not how a lady acted, nor thought.

The Hound was running his hands up her legs now, pushing her skirts up, until he reached their juncture. He stroked her sex through her small clothes, and Sansa did blush then, a heavy pink color that spread down her neck and to the tops of her breasts. He thought it made her look even more wanton.

She tensed as he began tugging on her smallclothes, he felt her muscles go rigid. “Relax,” he rasped, kissing her mouth quickly. “It won’t hurt, little bird.”

Had Sansa not had wine, she told herself she would have not allowed it. Had she not been giddy with her presumed freedom, not had her honeyed wine, not drank down his strong wine, she would have had her wits about her. But truth be told, she knew in her core she _wanted_ this, on some base level of need. Ever since he had pinned her to the wall, had rasped of how he smelt her blood, and the look in his eyes of wildfire. Since he had stolen that kiss from her, and he smelled of murder. She had wanted something else from him, some sort of completion, an act that would make her feel as if they had actually pursued something, so it could be laid to rest.

She lifted her hips for him, and he tore her smallclothes away. Her sex lay waiting for him, slick beneath auburn curls. He touched her, this time with no cloth to interfere, and she squirmed, eye widening. The ache grew, transformed into something so sweet and delicious that Sansa thought she would fall right off the bench.

“See?” he rasped, leaning up to kiss her mouth again. “It doesn’t hurt.”

His fingers, though calloused, were oddly gentle with her. They stroked her lips, circled and pressed to a nub she had not known was there. She felt like there was fire in her blood, boiling up and threatening to turn her skin to ash.

One of his hands had been gripping her thigh was gone. She glanced through her lashes to see his shoulder moving, heard him groan as he bit her shoulder. _He’s touching himself_ she thought, before her mind left her and she shuddered, the sensations in her growing.

“How does it feel?” he rasped in her ear, his scars pressing to her skin. Her mouth moved, but no words came, her hips simply pushed closer to his hand. He smirked, softening his touch, making her whimper. “Answer me, girl.”

“G-good,” she stammered, wishing he wouldn’t tease her like that. “Please _ser_ , don’t...don’t stop.”

“My name,” the Hound said, his fingers moving faster. “ _Say it_.”

Sansa hesitated, but something was knotting in her belly, hot and tight, and she couldn’t think. “Sandor,” she breathed, and with that one word he kissed her with such a fervor she was sure he had sucked her life’s breath from her.

She clutched him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, crying into his lips when something exploded in her, and the ache between her legs was replaced with waves of dizzying, tingling pleasure, from her toes to the ends of her feiry hair. She clung tighter to him, rode each wave as his touches slowed, and she felt the way he was rushing the touches on his own body. She grabbed his face, kissed him hard, breathed his name against his lips again, and felt him shudder and groan.

Sansa leaned back, breasts heaving with her breaths, staring at him. He had a satisfied smirk on his face, one that part of Sansa wanted to kiss, and the other wanted to smack. Gods, what had she _done_?

He stood a moment later, his breeches laced again, and leaned down, kissing her one last time. Sansa shivered, realized how could she was, exposed in the night air.

“Get back before you are missed,” he advised, and she nodded.

“What... what was that?” She asked, standing and pulling her gown up.

“You truly know nothing. That bloody well was the best feeling you’re ever going to get.” He grabbed her cloak and tossed it to her, watched her drape it over those pretty shoulders. The one he bit was already darkening, it would showcase a pretty bruise come dawn.

“I liked it,” Sansa breathed, blushed. He smirked.

“Good. You’ll like it more the next time.”

Sansa clutched her cloak around her. “Next time?” Gods, could she let this happen again? It was indecent, it wasn’t proper. She was a highborn lady, to let herself touched so by _him_ , it was not right. But he had been oddly gentle, and Sansa had to wonder if perhaps he had been gentler than most would have been.

“Don’t look so bloody horrified. You don’t need me to do it. Touch yourself girl, and you’ll understand.” Frustrated now, he turned and left her at that, storming into the night in search of more wine, and more relief. Her cries were still fresh in his head, his name on her sweet lips, and just one toss off was not going to be enough to ebb the need that had built.

Sansa walked briskly back towards her own chambers. Touch herself? Like he had touched her? She wasn’t sure if she could, it was most like to be naught what a highborn lady should be doing. There was certainly no way she could bring herself back to that ache she felt with him, that odd need that had pushed her forward, not with wine clouding her system. Yet, she felt she was thinking clearly now, and even as she closed and latched her door and disrobed, to clean herself up and get into a night gown, Sansa began to think the wine had little to less to do with her actions that night.

She crawled into bed in the dark, her shoulder sore from his bight. She’d have to cover the bruise, to be sure. She sighed and curled up, thinking of his calloused hands between her thighs, his rough mouth, and told herself she could never touch herself as he had touched her.

Could she?


End file.
